


Undercurrents

by gemjam



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mark is taken from him, Fernando feels lost, but he finds that getting him back doesn't fix everything like he'd hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercurrents

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to zeraparker for looking this over for me and offering reassurance.

The camera work is slightly shaky as the video starts and it looks like such a cliché. Mark is sat at a table, dark circles under his eyes, but he seems unharmed. There’s a defiance in the way he’s sat, the expression on his face, looking expectantly at whoever’s holding the camera. A piece of paper and a pen are placed down in front of him.

“You’re going to write a letter.”

The accent is thick, something eastern European, but it’s hard to place exactly. Mark just stares, waiting for more.

“You’re going to write a letter to your _boyfriend_.” There’s something in the way he says that word that sounds so distasteful and condescending. “Tell him everything you want him to know. Say goodbye.”

Mark glances at the paper and looks back up again. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to kill you,” the voice says. “So tell him everything that you think about him and feel about him. Tell him what’s in your heart.”

“What about my parents?” Mark asks. “What about my team? My fans?”

“Just the little bitch,” the voice dismisses.

Mark picks up the pen. “ _‘Dear little bitch’_ ,” he narrates as he writes. He drops the pen, looks up again, a sardonic amusement on his face. “And then what?”

“Then I make you read it out,” the voice says. “Then I kill you. Then I take him the letter, hand deliver it, and I kill him too. But not now, not when he’s expecting it. In a year, maybe two, when he’s forgotten. I’ll show him the letter and he’ll know who I am.”

Mark swallows. “Right,” he says tightly, just the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Flawless plan, mate.”

“So write,” the voice implores.

Mark looks at the paper again. “I write this letter and you kill me,” he says, looking up. “What’s to stop me just not writing it?”

“If you refuse I cut off one of your fingers,” the voice tells him plainly. “Every hour you still refuse, I cut off another. If we get to ten hours, I will have to think of something else to cut off.”

Mark’s gaze falls downwards. He licks his lips. The conflict flickers over his face. He looks back up, determination written over his features. “Okay.”

He lifts his hand from the table and he can’t hide the way that it shakes as he places it back down, further away from himself, fingers splayed in offering. The camera is placed down on the table, focussed on Mark’s hand, and the man walks around to join him. All the video shows of him is the edge of his shirt, the denim of his jeans. A hand grips Mark’s wrist, holding him still. A knife glints before being lifted out of shot. There is stillness, a terrifying moment of anticipation.

“Alright,” Mark suddenly cries out. “Alright, alright, let’s be cool.”

The voice chuckles and then releases Mark’s wrist, stepping back out of shot. The camera is lifted up again. Mark looks drained, his breaths shaky and uneven. He’s staring down at the desk, his hand pulled protectively back towards himself.

“Write,” the voice demands.

Mark looks up, staring for a moment, and then his gaze slips down slightly and for half a second he’s staring right down the lens of the camera. He picks up the pen, carefully crossing out the three words he’d written on the paper before, and then chews thoughtfully on the lid. As he finally starts to write, the camera shuts off.

*

There are no guards on the door now. The captor is dead and the police have no reason to believe he wasn’t working alone. Apparently it’s over. Fernando looks at Mark curled up on the sofa of the hotel room and he isn’t so sure.

Mark was released from the hospital quickly, nothing more than dehydration and a few superficial marks. When they got back to the hotel Mark had showered alone, door closed, the barrier making Fernando feel uneasy. Mark emerged sometime later, offering Fernando a tired smile with absolutely no conviction, even that pretence fading quickly from his lips. He slumped down on the sofa, switching the TV on and then staring through it as though the flickering lights and colours meant nothing to him.

“Are you hungry?” Fernando asks.

Mark seems to consider the question for a long time. “I don’t know. Not really.”

“We could order some room service,” Fernando suggests.

“Probably be a waste, mate,” Mark responds. He looks up at Fernando. “Unless you want something.”

“Not really,” Fernando replies with a shake of his head. He sits down beside Mark. “I didn’t book the plane tickets yet,” he says. “I was unsure where you would want to go. England or Spain or Australia.”

“Home,” Mark replies simply. Fernando looks at him blankly. It’s a word they haven’t quite found a definition for together. Mark shrugs. “Wherever. You decide.”

“England?” Fernando suggests.

Mark turns back to the TV with a sigh. “Fine by me, mate.”

Fernando sinks back into the sofa cushions with something like defeat, watching Mark’s eyes glaze over as he stares at the screen. Fernando’s own eyelids feel heavy, his whole body crying out for sleep, but he sits by Mark’s side until he finally decides he’s ready to go to bed.

In the darkness of the room, Fernando can’t quite tell how big the space between them is. It feels like miles but he knows the bed’s not that big. He listens to Mark’s breaths, knows he’s not asleep. He wants to cling to Mark, wants to touch him from head to toe and prove that he’s real.

“Mark?” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

Fernando hesitates. He has no idea how to express himself, none of the languages he knows seem equipped for this. “I missed you,” he finally manages, words that don’t even begin to touch how he feels.

Mark shifts against the mattress. “Thanks,” he says, his voice cracking slightly on the single word.

Fernando reaches out, stroking his fingertips over Mark’s forearm. Mark pulls it back, tucking it against his body before he turns, curling up with his back to Fernando.

*

Mark sits, arms behind his back, and it’s unclear whether his hands are secured to the chair or just to each other. His face is turned to one side, ignoring the camera and whoever is behind it. His jaw is tensed, eyes cold and slightly narrowed.

“Are you hungry?” the voice asks. There is a flicker of something on Mark’s face but he stops himself from reacting. “Thirsty?” the voice enquires. “Because the hunger is a pain but it’s the thirst that really consumes you.” Mark continues his stony silence. “You are not going to speak today? Your fans will be very disappointed.”

Mark looks up then, over the camera and towards the voice. His expression isn’t quite questioning but there’s an impatient curiosity to it. The voice offers no further explanation. Mark’s eyes drift away and then settle on the same spot again.

“You want me to write them a letter now too?” The words are sardonic but there’s no real bite to them.

“You don’t have to,” the voice tells him. “Your last video was quite a hit.” Mark’s face tightens into a confused frown. “Didn’t I tell you?” the voice asks. “I put our last little video on the internet. So many hits. The police will be trying to trace it but they won’t find us.”

Mark’s eyes shift around the room, realisation making his face drop. He seems self-conscious all of a sudden, unsure of himself. He looks down the lens of the camera for a moment and then looks away.

“Nothing to say?” the voice goads. Mark presses his lips firmly together. “You could at least answer my question.”

Mark looks up. There’s the sound of movement and then a small glass is placed down on the table in front of Mark, water poured into it, before a straw is tossed down beside it. Footsteps are heard retreating. Mark stares at the water.

“Are you thirsty?”

Mark turns his head dismissively away.

“Do you have that dull ache in your head yet?” the voice persists. “Is your mouth dry, your throat scratchy, your tongue sour?”

Mark’s mouth twitches, an unintentional movement that he tries to still. His head wobbles slightly, determination in his eyes, but it falters, a glint of hopelessness making everything look like it’s about to crack and fall apart.

“If you don’t drink that in ten seconds I will take it away,” the voice informs him.

Mark’s eyes close for half a second before opening again. His gaze is cast downwards, something sunken about his whole posture. It’s like he knows he’s going to fail.

“One, two three...”

As the voice drones on, Mark bends his body forwards, taking the straw urgently between his teeth and awkwardly directing the end of it into the glass. He sucks the water up quickly, panic obvious in his eyes. When the count gets to ten, the water is snatched away from him, just a couple of drops left in the bottom. Mark raises his head, dropping the straw from his lips. He directs a glare to just above the camera. A low chuckle is heard and Mark looks away as the video ends.

*

Mark spends a lot of time out of the house, training in the woods and walking the dogs, and sometimes Fernando feels like he hasn’t gotten him back at all. Mark will get his bike out and Fernando will suggest that he join him for a ride but Mark always dismisses him with a crinkle of his nose and a wave of his hand, and Fernando is left home alone to wait. It feels far too familiar and he wishes he had a way to communicate that fact to Mark.

Fernando has to train too and the fact that they’re doing basically the same activities separately makes him feel even more disconnected and alone. Shouldn’t they be sharing this? Shouldn’t they be clinging to it for dear life?

Mark walks around the house like he’s in a daze most of the time and words fly around Fernando’s head; _post traumatic stress disorder, Stockholm syndrome, broken._ He’s not sure whether that last one refers to Mark or what they share together. He feels like the worst person in the world for even thinking it.

He feels guilty a lot, feels responsible for what happened to Mark and he knows there’s no way to express that without Mark seeing it as a power grab. This isn’t something that happened to Fernando; he has no real claim to it. He’s seen the videos though, was called to the police station each day and sat in a cold, stark room to watch, a couple of hours before the kidnapper uploaded them for the rest of the world to see. Fernando knows their relationship was the target, not Mark. Maybe that’s why Mark has been so distant lately. Maybe Mark blames Fernando as much as Fernando blames himself.

Fernando comes back from his run one day to see Mark stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. He offers Fernando a nod and one of those tired half-smiles. Fernando considers him for a moment as he toes off his muddy trainers and then he walks across the kitchen before he can stop himself. He steps up to Mark and wraps his arms around his waist, burying his face in Mark’s chest. Mark’s arms go around him in return, not gripping on like Fernando but still holding him close, and it’s such a relief that Fernando just sags against him.

“You stink,” Mark says.

“Sorry,” Fernando mutters, a word he’s been needing to say to Mark for so long. He takes a step back and Mark’s arms fall far too easily from around him.

*

Mark sits, hands behind his back, eyes cast down and away from the camera. There is silence for a few moments and then a shuffling of feet is heard. Mark winces but he tries to hide it.

“You will hurt my feelings if you keep refusing to talk to me,” the voice says. Mark doesn’t react. “And I’m sure your fans would like to hear what you have to say.” Mark visibly tenses. “I hope that you understand that I will keep posting these videos even if you say nothing. So go ahead, tell us what’s on your mind.”

Mark is still for a moment longer and then his eyes shift along the tabletop before he looks up over the camera. “Well, for starters, the room service here is fucking awful, mate.”

“Yes,” the voice agrees, a hint of amusement heard in the tone. “I suppose you are used to better. Everyone always doing everything for you.”

Mark snorts a laugh, his posture livening up slightly. “I can look after myself.”

“Then what are you doing here?” the voice queries with a note of mocking.

“Didn’t give me much choice as far as I recall,” Mark responds.

“Maybe if you didn’t go around thinking you were so untouchable you would be more careful with yourself.”

Mark looks away again. He takes a breath and lets it out of a gentle sigh. It’s unclear whether he’s disappointed with the accusation or the fact that he let himself get drawn in.

“The problem with people like you and your _boyfriend_ is you believe your own hype.”

Mark raises his head, offering a defiant look over the camera. “There a reason you’re helping me get more famous then, mate?”

“Yes,” the voice says calmly. “When I strip you apart, piece by piece, I am sending a message. When I kill you, it’s going to be the event of the century.”

Mark stares at him, expression dark and face conflicted. He looks angry but he looks scared too and like he’s desperately trying not to show it; not in front of his kidnapper, not in front of all the people who have the potential to see this video. There is silence from behind the camera but it keeps on recording until Mark wavers, a tiny almost imperceptible quiver, and then it cuts to black.

*

Fernando stretches out his fingers, feeling the empty mattress. The space between his and Mark’s bodies is cold. Fernando is trying so hard not to crowd Mark, to let him deal with this at his own pace, but in the middle of the night when he’s cold and he’s scared and all he wants is a little bit of comfort it seems like an insurmountable task to keep the distance between them. This is what Mark needs, he reminds himself, but it feels unfair that he can’t have what he needs from Mark.

Tentatively he shuffles closer, the sheets cool against his flesh, and he shivers. He’s so sick of being cold. He pushes closer still, presses his body against Mark’s and tries not to feel guilty about it. Mark shifts slightly, a sleepy noise coming from his throat, and Fernando can’t tell whether he’s just woken him up or whether he was awake all along. He rests one arm over Mark’s torso and nuzzles against the side of his neck. Mark makes a tiny noise again, something unreadable, and Fernando wishes he’d either reciprocate or push him away. He’s not sure what to do with this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing Mark’s neck, almost hoping he won’t be heard. “I can stop.” He thinks that might be a lie. He pulls his fingers into a fist, gripping hold of Mark’s T-shirt.

“Shh,” Mark tells him, rolling his body so that they’re face to face and Fernando suddenly feels giddy and overwhelmed. Mark touches the side of his face and then leans in to brush their lips together. “Fer,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut before doing it again.

The kisses are chaste, Mark’s touches light where Fernando’s are aggressively needy. He slides his fingers under Mark’s T-shirt before he stops himself to wonder whether that might be okay. It’s such a visceral sensation, running his hand up Mark’s spine, feeling his warm flesh beneath his fingertips. It’s life affirming. Fernando has needed this more than he can even express to himself lately.

Mark presses himself tightly against Fernando, the kiss deepening by the tiniest of increments, and Fernando can’t help but groan against him, hips pushing irresistibly forwards. Mark pulls his mouth back, resting his forehead against Fernando’s, breath slightly ragged between them. Fernando keeps his eyes closed for a long moment, not wanting to let go quite yet because he thinks he knows what comes next. As soon as their eyes finally meet, he knows he’s right.

“Later?” Mark suggests, a note of apology in his voice.

Fernando just nods, his whole body tingling. He knows there’s a smile in his eyes, even if it can’t quite drag up the corners of his mouth. He knows that that’s enough. He slides his hands away, retreating, but Mark grabs hold of a wrist, keeping it there, giving him permission to stay.

*

Mark’s hands are free, resting on the tabletop in front of him. He looks over his nails, picks at his cuticles. His hair is greasy, everything about him looking exhausted.

“It has been exactly twenty-four hours since I have given you anything to eat or drink,” the voice informs him. “Did you know that?”

Mark looks up slowly. He seems almost bored. He doesn’t say anything.

“I will give you some bread and a nice drink of water if you can justify to me your relationship,” the voice continues. Mark looks away, a sneer on his face. “Or you can wait another twenty-four hours and see if I am feeling any kinder.”

Mark moves his tongue around in his mouth, trying not to grimace as he swallows. He studies his fingernails again, picking some dirt out from beneath them. Finally he looks up with a sigh.

“I can fuck whoever I want.”

“You can,” the voice agrees. “Why _him_?” There’s that sneer again, the one that can make blood run cold.

Mark shrugs, shifting in his seat so that he looks cocky. “Why not?”

There is a bitter snort of laughter. “You can do better. He must be a lot to put up with.”

Mark folds his arms on the table in front of him, leaning forward until his chin is almost touching them. He presses his lips, chapped and sore looking, into a thoughtful pout. The moment stretches out, Mark’s stillness making it look as though the video might have been paused.

“He will be so pleased to see you defending him,” the voice says sarcastically.

Mark’s eyes flick upwards to that point over the camera. His lips part as though he has something to say but then his eyes drop to the camera and he smiles instead, worn but genuine, before offering a conspiratorial little wink right down the lens.

“No food or water then,” the voice snaps. Mark looks down at his folded arms. “No privileges.” At that, Mark lifts his head back up, lips parting once more, but the camera shuts off before he gets a chance to respond.

*

Mark shifts above him, their naked bodies pressed together, two of Mark’s fingers buried deep inside Fernando’s body, making him gasp. He tries not to get his hopes up. They’ve gotten this far before and Mark has suddenly pulled away, a mumbled apology in the darkness before he headed alone to the shower. Fernando is worried that Mark is repulsed by him, that some tiny seed has been planted in his head that’s making him see Fernando for who he really is.

“ _Te amo_.”

He whispers the words directly into Mark’s ear, his voice practically all breath, and he knows that Mark will accept them. _I love you_ has always been too big a cliché for Mark, words that have sounded loaded to him his whole life, but _te amo_ is something that Mark associates only with them, no connotations or expectations. For all Fernando knows, he pretends they mean something else completely.

Mark pulls out his fingers, pushing Fernando’s legs further apart with sticky hands before pressing almost immediately inside him, forcing all Fernando’s breath out in a high whine. Mark stills. Fernando can feel the tension in him and then Mark is reaching out, fumbling with something by the bed, and Fernando can’t work out what he’s doing until the lamp switches on, making Fernando screw his eyes shut and turn his head away at the sudden brightness. After a moment he tentatively squints up at Mark to see him staring down at him.

“This okay?” Mark asks.

Fernando opens his eyes a little wider, blinking up at him. He nods. “I thought you say lights on is only for porn stars and hopeless romantics,” he points out.

Mark shrugs. “Maybe we’re porn stars.”

An idea seems to light up in him and he looks to the side. Fernando follows his gaze to see Mark’s phone sitting there, camera practically winking at them. He looks back at Mark, watching the conflict flicker over his face.

“I don’t mind,” Fernando assures him.

Mark looks away from his phone with a little shake of his head. “No more videos.”

Fernando feels something go cold inside him and he doesn’t know how to stop it reaching his face. He wishes the light was off again but then he thinks maybe that’s the point, maybe Mark wants to see this. Fernando isn’t really sure how it’s supposed to help. He wants to grab Mark’s phone, turn on the video function, let Mark film him in the hopes that it will give him some of that power back that he obviously feels he’s lacking, but he doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare speak.

Mark reaches out to push a piece of hair away from Fernando’s forehead; an affectionate touch hidden under the guise of something practical. “Say it again.”

“Say what?” Fernando asks.

“What you said before.”

Fernando frowns, casting his memory back for anything significant he might have said. When he realises what Mark is asking for, the simplicity of it makes him want to smile. “ _Te amo_ ,” he says, not shying away from Mark’s insistent gaze.

Mark nods, a tiny movement, and then, eyes still locked with Fernando’s, he begins to move. Fernando shudders, a whine getting caught in his throat, the intimacy of it almost unbearable.

*

Mark’s hands are tied behind his back again, the dark circles under his eyes worse than usual, eyelids heavy. He looks stiff and uncomfortable. A glass of water is placed down in front of him.

“If you tell me a secret I will give you a straw.”

Mark glances up towards the voice and then looks down at the water. He leans forward, sticking out his tongue to lap at it. A chuckle is heard.

“You are like an animal,” the voice says. “How quickly civilisation can be taken away from you.”

Mark ignores him, continues to awkwardly get as much water as he can, apparently unashamed to be seen doing so.

“Tell me a secret,” the voice says again. “Then you can have a straw. It will make your task much easier.”

Mark lifts his head, a couple of drops of water rolling down his chin. He attempts to wipe them off on his T-shirt but it’s not very effective with his bound hands. “What the fuck do you actually want?” Mark demands.

“You seem a little irritable,” the voice says with mocking concern. “Are you tired?”

Mark looks away, irritation and exhaustion clear on his face. He looks like a man who’s thinking about giving up.

“Do you want your bed, your little bitch?” the voice continues.

Mark sets his jaw, his eyes shining slightly, but he blinks it away, looking up over the camera. “I honestly can’t understand why people put so much energy into being negative, mate. Life’s too fucking short.”

“Is yours not beginning to feel too long?” the voice counters, taking in Mark’s wretchedness.

Mark sits up a little straighter, his defiance coming back. “Didn’t you want me to read that letter for you so you could put me out of my misery?”

“Why would I do that?” the voice asks. “I like your misery.”

Mark snorts a laugh. “Trying to work up the guts? If you can’t bring yourself to do it now you’re never going to.”

“Perhaps I find your false hope amusing,” the voice responded. “And if you do not start being good I will keep your hands tied and you will not get any water.”

Mark sighs. He sags back against the chair, shifts his arms with a small grimace. He looks down at the water again.

“Tell me a secret,” the voice implores.

Mark looks up at him. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a racing car driver.”

The glass of water is yanked away from him, the camera shut off.

*

There is a knock at the door of Fernando’s room in the Ferrari motorhome. He looks towards it but before he gets a chance to respond the door opens and closes and Mark is sitting by his side on the red sofa. He gives a weary sigh and then curls up on his side, feet pressed against Fernando’s thigh.

“No shoes on the seat, Mark,” Fernando chides, pulling Mark’s trainers from his feet and tossing them carelessly onto the floor. He kind of likes them there; it makes the small room look homely.

“Yeah, priorities, mate,” Mark says dryly.

He hugs a cushion to himself and Fernando considers him for a moment. He always knew this weekend would be hard for Mark. The summer break gave him time and space to deal with it on his own without having to face the paddock but Fernando had caught him staring into the bathroom mirror more than once in the past few weeks and he knew Mark found it hard enough just to face himself.

Fernando reaches down, curling his fingers around Mark’s socked foot, rubbing slightly at the sole with his thumb.

“They think they understand,” Mark says. Fernando looks up to his face, waiting for more. “Because they all saw those fucking videos.”

Fernando’s gaze falls away, his thumb stilling it’s soothing rhythm. He knows it’s the wrong thing to do but there’s a lump in his throat and he feels like a hypocrite.

“He turned that camera on for a couple of minutes every twenty-four hours,” Mark continues. “Those videos aren’t even fucking close to what happened.”

Fernando blinks away the stinging sensation that threatens his eyes. That’s what he was always afraid of. What he’s seen in those videos is bad enough; he’s too much of a coward to try and work out what happened in between.

Mark lifts his head suddenly, looking over at Fernando, and Fernando feels caught in the act. He looks back, knowing his face must show everything that’s going through his mind, no matter how much he tries to hide it.

“Did you watch them?” There’s something almost accusatory in Mark’s tone, maybe like he expected better, maybe like he’s accusing Fernando of coming to the same conclusions the press have clearly drawn.

“Only when they make me,” Fernando replies in a small voice.

“Who?” Mark asks, frowning slightly.

“The police,” Fernando says. “They say it is important that I watch. So I watch.”

Mark nods slightly, putting his head back down. Fernando wants to assure him that he doesn’t for a second think he understands what Mark has been through, that he wishes he’d never seen those videos at all because he can’t get the haunted look in Mark’s eyes out of his head, can’t see the bravery that everyone in the media keeps talking about, but he knows that’s completely the wrong thing to say. Instead he rubs Mark’s foot again and looks down at Mark’s trainers on the floor, trying to remind himself that, in a metaphorical sense at least, this is home.

*

Mark’s hands are still behind his back, his jaw clenched in frustration. He looks off to the side in his usual defiance of the camera.

“Every video we post has more viewers,” the voice says. Mark’s eyes lift up to the ceiling, his face tightening. “I think maybe I have made my point now.” There is the sound of crinkling paper that captures Mark’s attention. “Would you like to make any edits before you read this to your boyfriend?”

Mark’s cheeks colour a subtle pink. He looks away. “It’s never gonna be Shakespeare, mate. Let’s just get it over with.”

The sound of more rustling paper. “This is the last thing you will ever say to him,” the voice reminds Mark. “I want you to be sure.”

“Yeah, you’re such a thoughtful guy,” Mark says spitefully. He looks back up towards the voice. “If you want me to read it, hand it over and I’ll read it.”

Footsteps are heard and a large hunting knife is placed down on the table in front of Mark. “This is how I will kill you. Press the record button and then slice your throat open and watch while you choke on your own blood.”

Mark stares at the knife. He swallows uncomfortably. His face is pale now, drained of that pink colour that made him look alive. Maybe his blood’s already stopped pumping. Mark looks up over the camera.

“Give me the letter then.” It’s a challenge, a moment of stupid bravado that can’t possibly pay off. The silence that follows is long and loaded.

“Tomorrow,” the voice informs him, a hand reaching into shot and sliding the knife away again. “Now that they know what is coming, maybe the whole world will watch.”

“Then you’ll be nearly as famous as me,” Mark bites back, something lighting up in his eyes.

“Your empty fame doesn’t interest me,” the voice says spitefully.

Mark looks pointedly down the lens of the camera. “What’s that for then?”

The screen cuts to black.

*

Fernando makes a point of going home between Spa and Monza, even if his commitments mean he only gets one full day in the house with Mark. He’s glad when Mark offers to pick him up from the airport, even more glad that Mark looks genuinely pleased to see him as they climb into the car together. He wants Mark to want him there. It makes him feel needy, but that validation is so important when he can still barely work out what to say to Mark most of the time.

Fernando catches Mark staring at him several times as they watch TV together that evening. There’s a thoughtful look on Mark’s face that Fernando can’t quite read, something troubled and uncertain. It makes Fernando’s stomach sink slightly every time he turns and finds it directed towards him. He doesn’t dare ask.

The next day, he notices Mark watching him again and it makes him feel uneasy, makes him self-conscious. He feels like maybe he’s missing something important here and he’s a terrible person for not picking up on whatever Mark is trying to telegraph to him. Mark hasn’t had many words since Fernando got him back. Fernando feels like he should have learnt to read the subtleties by now.

He has an early flight in the morning so they don’t stay up late and Fernando is glad. He feels instantly guilty, like he’s trying to get away with spending less time with Mark than he has to. When he comes out of the bathroom, Mark is already under the covers, the lamp on his side of the bed switched off. Fernando climbs in beside him, reaching out to switch his own light off, when Mark instantly flicks his back on again. Fernando looks over at him, confused.

Mark curls up on his side, considering Fernando again. “Do you want to know what I wrote in that letter?”

“You remember it?” Fernando asks.

“I’m not offering it to you,” Mark says, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”

Fernando frowns. He doesn’t get it.

“It’s not...” Mark begins, the sentence fading away before he can grab hold of it. He looks thoughtful for a moment and then tries again. “It wasn’t honest. There’s no secrets in there. I’m not going to sit down and spill my heart because some psycho with a video camera and a big knife tells me to.” He meets Fernando’s eyes again. “I don’t want you clinging to something that’s not real.”

“I’m not,” Fernando assures him. He reaches out a hand, running his fingertips over Mark’s hip, his clothing shifting with the touch. “That’s not what I’ve been clinging to.”

Mark’s eyes fall down but a tiny smile graces his lips. He shifts closer, pulling Fernando towards him, pressing his face into Fernando’s neck. Fernando shivers slightly as Mark breathes him in.

“Thank you for missing me,” Mark mumbles, mouth moving against Fernando’s flesh with the words.

“You say this already,” Fernando tells him. “In Hungary.”

Mark moves in closer still, his body warm and solid and real. “Sometimes I don’t say things enough,” he replies, moving back slightly to place a kiss at the corner of Fernando’s mouth. “But I like to think you know.”

Fernando nods his head, closing his eyes as he kisses Mark back. “I know.”


End file.
